


Opera

by wheel_pen



Series: Cinder [4]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Slavery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 18:18:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3820186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oleg wants Cinder to come up with a Western opera for Zemelanikan artists to perform. His suggestion of Phantom of the Opera seems oddly apt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opera

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things. 
> 
> Technically Cinder is not a slave, but he’s still living under subjugation; inherent in this are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this original work, which was inspired by many different stories.

“Patrick, I am so bored today,” Oleg sighed mournfully, squirming around in his overstuffed leather throne. “Do you have anything interesting for me to do?”

 

Patrick looked up from his collection of official documents he was sorting through. “Shall I send someone to fetch the boy, sir?” The first line of defense.

 

Oleg was about to agree, then looked at the clock on the wall and shook his head. “It’s barely nine. He won’t be out of bed yet,” the Shashka decided. “He’ll be grumpy if I wake him now. What else?”

 

Patrick glanced at the schedule. “Well, there’s a meeting with the Minister of Public Welfare in about twenty minutes—“

 

“Boring!” Oleg declared. Patrick stifled a sigh. “No, Patrick, I really don’t like that man. He’s always whining and complaining.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Patrick shuffled through some of the papers. “Well, there’s the annual letter from the director of the Royal Opera House, asking which shows you’d like them to perform for the season—“

 

“ _Vortansky_!” the Shashka replied quickly.

 

“Yes, sir.” It was Oleg’s favorite opera—actually, it was the _only_ opera he liked. It was rather violent. “I’ll send the usual letter then, sir.”

 

“Wait,” Oleg said thoughtfully. “Tell them to do a Western opera this time.”

 

“A Western opera, sir?”

 

“Yes, from Europe or America or something,” Oleg confirmed. “Have the boy pick it out.” He swung his long legs back down to the stone floor and stood. “I’m going for a ride.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Patrick made a note to tell the Minister of Public Welfare his meeting had been... _rescheduled_. This job required a fine balance between keeping the nation running and keeping the Shashka happy.

 

**

 

“He wants me to _what_?” Yasen exclaimed, hands on his hips.

 

Patrick took a drag on his cigarette and leaned back against the low stone wall just outside the kitchen. “Western operas. Know any?”

 

“Well—no!” Yasen told him. It was almost noon and his lunch was waiting for him on the wooden table just a few feet away, some roasted venison and mashed turnips and fried applies with cinnamon, and he would much rather return to it than stand around in the muddy courtyard. “I mean, I’ve heard of _horse_ operas—“

 

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Not Westerns with cowboys and Indians,” he clarified. “Operas from Europe. From _outside_ Zemelanika.”

 

“Oh.” Yasen was still stumped. Classical entertainment to him meant the original Pac-Man. “He doesn’t really think I could reproduce a whole opera, does he?”

 

“No, you just come up with a name,” Patrick told him, flicking ashes into the mud, “and then the opera house sends away for information about it.”

 

“Well, can’t they just send away for a _list_ of operas?” Yasen reasoned, rubbing his arms against a chilly spring breeze.

 

“Sure, they could,” the Sergeant told him, “but _he_ wants _you_ to suggest one.”

 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” the boy protested.

 

“Don’t start whining, lad,” Patrick ordered. He dropped the cigarette into the mud and stepped on it. “You know how he is. Now just think of something.”

 

Yasen racked his brain for the name of any opera he’d ever heard of, in passing somewhere. “ _The Magic Flute_ ,” he suggested finally.

 

Patrick shook his head. “No, he’s not interested in magic.”

 

“Now I have to come up with one he’ll _like_!?” Yasen exclaimed indignantly. Patrick gave him a look that suggested complaints were pointless. “Fine. Um, _The Barber of Seville_.”

 

“He doesn’t like comedies.”

 

Yasen thought a moment. “Is that a comedy?”

 

Patrick nodded. “I think so.”

 

“I thought that was the one with the barber who killed people and turned them into pies.” Patrick stared at him. “Never heard of that one before, huh?” The Irishman shook his head. Yasen thought harder. “ _Carmen_! There’s one. This Gypsy girl gets stabbed by her boyfriend at a bullfight or something.”

 

Patrick shrugged. “It’s a possibility,” he allowed.

 

“Ha! I’ve got it!” Yasen exclaimed after a moment of quiet. “ _The Phantom of the Opera_.”

 

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Don’t start bringing in your Broadway nonsense,” he said derisively. “If he has to sit through three hours of singing, dancing cats he’ll shoot the whole cast.”

 

“No, _Phantom of the Opera_ is really good,” Yasen insisted. “I saw it with my parents in New York once. It’s about this scarred, antisocial romantic who falls for a beautiful, innocent youngster, and also he likes to kill people.” Yasen grinned. “Not too far off the mark, huh?”

 

“Yeah, except for the beautiful and innocent part,” Patrick replied dryly. Yasen made a face at him. “Fine. _Phantom of the Opera_ it is. But I’m also going to check out the one with the homicidal barber.”

 

**

 

The heavy black curtain dropped just as the orchestra played the last thunderous chords of the score, the three hour performance of the country’s first Western opera drawing to a dramatic finish. The finale was met with resounding silence, except for the frantic scribbling of the dark-suited man sitting in the center section, sixth row. He was the only audience member on the floor.

 

After a few moments a side door to the stage opened and the director of the show, as well as the head of the opera house, emerged and gingerly approached the dark-haired man. He kept them waiting another minute as he wrote out one last sentence, then looked up at them with determination. “It’s good,” the representative from the Ministry of Culture proclaimed finally, and the two other men were visibly relieved. “The music is... very unique. It’s very exotic. Some of the costumes will have to be altered, however...”

 

The members of the opera company sighed at that news, dreading conveying it to their high-strung costume designer. She had been convinced the Ministry would let them get away with lower necklines and other more risqué touches this time, because it was a “foreign” show, but apparently they still had some work to do before opening night. Still, if that was all that had been found too objectionable for the Zemelanikan public...

 

“For example,” the representative began, “in Act One, Scene Two, when—“ He stopped and stood suddenly, looking over the shoulders of the opera company members. They turned to discover Sergeant Gildea, the Shashka’s right-hand man, strolling towards them from the staircase to the Royal Box.

 

“Ser-Sergeant,” stammered the head of the opera house, trying to smile. “I didn’t realize you were watching our dress rehearsal as well.”

 

The Sergeant shrugged. “Thought I’d better check it out, before the Shashka did. Good thing, too,” he added ominously, “because you need to make a few changes before he sees it.”

 

“Um, if you’re referring to the costumes, sir,” the ministry clerk suggested carefully, “I’ve made a complete list—“

 

Patrick waved him off. “How much t-t to show is the concern of the Ministry of Culture,” the Irishman interrupted, somewhat disdainfully. “The Shashka won’t be looking at _them_ anyway.” He turned back to the opera company members. “No, what you’ve got to change... is the ending.”

 

Patrick watched the blood drain from the two men’s faces with a mild amount of amusement. Still, he knew he was right about this one. “The-the _ending_?” the director repeated. “But-but—that’s how it _ends_ , we can’t change that!”

 

“Sure you can,” Patrick countered easily. “I’m sure you have people creative enough to rewrite a bit of dialogue, paste the bits of song together in a different way. It’s hardly anything, really.”

 

“How do you want it changed?” the head of the opera house asked, bracing himself for the worst.

 

“The Phantom has to get the girl.”

 

There was silence for a moment. “ _What_?!” the director exclaimed. “Sergeant, that-that goes against the entire _theme_ of the work! It’s a romantic _tragedy_. The Phantom _gives up_ Christine to Raoul because he wants her to be happy more than he wants to possess her—“

 

The Sergeant held up his hand to stop the analysis. “Trust me, Director, I understood the plot. It’s not exactly subtle.” The director fairly glared at him. “But I think for your own sake, you’d better change the ending.”

 

“Are you _threatening_ me, Sergeant?” the director queried furiously.

 

The head of the opera house tried to calm him and asked Patrick in a more reasonable tone, “Sergeant Gildea, perhaps if you could _explain_ why you feel the ending ought to be changed...?”

 

Patrick gave the fuming director a look that said he should be a little more careful with his temper in the future, then turned to his superior. “The story was described to me as, ‘Scarred, antisocial romantic falls for beautiful, innocent youth, and also likes to kill people.’” The older man’s eyes widened as he realized where the Sergeant was headed. “That summary leaves out the fact that the scarred, antisocial romantic gives up the beautiful, innocent youth to _another_ beautiful, innocent youth,” Patrick continued. “Now sitting up there in the Box on opening night, how do you think the Shashka—whose favorite opera is _Vortansky_ , let me remind you—is going to take that particular ending?”

 

“But it’s not—it’s not supposed to be _political_ ,” the director sputtered.

 

“Director, it’s not his _politics_ that are going to be offended,” Patrick assured him knowingly. He shrugged. “It’s up to you whether or not to change it, of course. But I’m sure you know how the Shashka expresses his disapproval of things.” Both men swallowed hard. They knew. Patrick turned and headed out of the theatre. “Just a friendly suggestion,” he called back over his shoulder. “It’s probably alright to keep Christine female,” Patrick added. “ _This_ season, anyway.” He disappeared out the door.

 

The director and the head of the opera house looked at each other in dismay. Suddenly they had a _lot_ more to worry about than a few costume changes.

 

**

 

Once again, the heavy black curtain sank to the stage as the orchestra pounded out the final notes of the music accompanying the first public performance of a Western opera in Zemelanika. This time, thunderous applause from the house packed with celebrities, journalists, and everyone else wealthy or lucky enough to score tickets to the opening night filled the cavernous hall, and the cast bows and encores were met with equal enthusiasm. Up in the Royal Box, Oleg was clapping somewhat awkwardly, his arms around the boy he’d insistently pulled into his lap halfway through the show. Patrick didn’t bother to applaud, since no one could see him in his particular corner of the Box—and also he was irritated because he had _just_ managed to get those stupid, haunting songs out of his head from the latest rehearsal he’d seen. And now they were stuck back in there as firmly as ever.

 

“Patrick, that was _excellent_ ,” the Shashka decided firmly, and the Sergeant had to admit he was relieved. When it came to artistic productions you could never really tell which way Oleg was going to go. “Send the people something nice.”

 

“Of course, sir.”

 

Oleg ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately and smiled at him. “ _Koroshi malchik_ ,” he told him approvingly. “You made a good choice.” Patrick noted, with some dismay, that Yasen appeared to be more confused than anything else—and he hoped the Shashka didn’t notice it as well. Oleg nudged the boy up and stood, stretching after sitting in one place for three hours—he _must_ have enjoyed the show, if he hadn’t tried to sneak away at any point. “What’s the next one?” he queried absently of Patrick. “Something about a cannibal barber? I thought that sounded fun.”

 

“Oh, I think you’ll like that one, too, sir,” the Sergeant assured him.

 

Oleg nodded and swept out of the box, eager to get outside and walk. Yasen grabbed Patrick’s arm before he could follow. “Patrick,” the boy hissed indignantly, “they changed the ending!”

 

Patrick gave him a severe look. “Of _course_ they did,” he confirmed. “And if you’d _told_ me the Phantom _didn’t_ get the girl, they could have changed it a lot earlier in the process.”

 

“He’s not _supposed_ to get the girl,” Yasen protested. “That’s why it’s a _tragedy_!”

 

Patrick rolled his eyes. “For the love of—“ He sighed in exasperation. “The opera director I could understand, but _you_ , of all people, should realize that _he_ ”—meaning Oleg, of course—“would not have reacted well to the scarred, antisocial, _violent_ romantic giving up the beautiful, innocent youth to that little blond pretty boy.” Yasen made a face at him that indicated he still didn’t see that as a good enough reason. “You are just lucky I agreed to have Raoul accidentally killed by the lynch mob while helping the Phantom and Christine escape—instead of insisting that the Phantom shoot him between the eyes himself,” Patrick added.

 

The teenager was not impressed. “That is _so stupid_ —“

 

“Patrick?” The Sergeant and the boy both turned to the doorway of the Royal Box, where Oleg had just popped his head back in.

 

“Yes, sir?” If the Shashka was irritated they hadn’t followed him right away, Patrick was going to make d—n sure the boy felt _his_ irritation.

 

“Do you think they could make Christine a boy, for next season?”

 

“I’m sure they could, sir,” Patrick assured him, shoving Yasen towards the exit. “I’ll mention it to the head of the company.”

 


End file.
